


It's gettin' dark, too dark to see

by Enochian Things (Salr323)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Guilt Trip, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s09e03 I'm No Angel, Pre-Slash, Profound Bond, Sick Castiel, Slight Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 19:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5346233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Enochian%20Things
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas is human and alone in the world; Dean's not handling it. At all.  But then again, neither is Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Week One**

“It’s raining,” Dean says as he returns to the kitchen. His hair and jacket are wet, like he’s been standing outside in the rain for an hour. Perhaps he has.

Sam’s not sure what to make of his brother’s new obsession with the weather. “Right” is all he says in reply and returns to his perusal of the refrigerator. It’s depressingly bare and his stomach is growling. “We need groceries.”

“Groceries,” Dean echoes, although it sounds more like a snarl, as he slumps down in a chair at the table. He’s still wearing his wet jacket.

Sam turns, closes the fridge, and leans his back against it. “Okay,” he says, arms folded. “What’s up?”

Dean just clenches his jaw, fingernails tracing patterns on the table. “Your face is what’s up.”

Sam doesn’t rise to the lame bait; Dean might be in the mood for a fight, but he isn’t. “I’m gonna get pizza,” he decides. “Meat Feast?”

But Dean just shakes his head. “Not hungry.”

“Are you sick or something?” He takes a step closer, half reaches out a hand to touch Dean’s forehead, before thinking better of it and letting his arm drop to his side. “You didn’t each lunch, either.”

Another shrug and he’s back on his feet. “I’m not hungry, I’m—” There’s a pause where he’s still staring at his fingers, nails digging into the wood. “It’s been raining for fucking hours.” 

Exasperated, Sam lifts his hands. “And what? Are we planning a day at the beach?”

“You’re an asshole.”

“I don’t even know what we’re arguing about,” Sam grouses, and then holds out his hand. “Give me the keys. I’m gonna get pizza.”

“Screw you.”

“Dean—”

“You’re still sick,” he says. “I’ll get the freakin’ pizza. Jesus.”

Sam watches him leave in bewildered silence.

***

It’s still raining when Dean drives into Lebanon, a steady fall in the dwindling twilight. Everything is wet, soaked through. Colder than snow, sometimes, a steady rain. He knows that, the killing power of water, the steady seep through clothes and the ensuing hypothermia. You need shelter, food, someplace dry to—

His fist slams into the steering wheel before he realizes he’s lifted a hand. He mutters an apology to Baby, although it’s not the Impala who deserves to see him grovel. 

But then, what use is an apology if he can’t change a damn thing? It’s not like he has a choice. It’s not like he could ask Cas to come back even if he found him—

Not that he’s looking.

He’s not looking.

It’s just that he keeps seeing glimpses, or thinks he does. They’re ghosts of course, in the metaphorical sense: his memory, his hopes – or fears – playing tricks. Cas has gone, trudged off alone into the night, and if he’s smart, which he is, he’s long gone from this miserable corner of the world. Dean hopes he’s headed south, some place warmer, with less rain.

But still, he looks for him. He can’t help it. The twisting guilt in the pit of his stomach won’t let him stop.

He heads to the nearest bar, calls in the pizza order from there and gets a beer while he waits. It doesn’t take the edge off. These days, his edges are so sharp it would take something industrial to blunt them. Sam and the freakin’ angel on his shoulder, Cas human and vulnerable: there’s no taking the edge off any of that.

He presses the heel of one hand into his eye, sends red flashes pounding in his vision, but it doesn’t dislodge the memory of Cas leaving – of the bewildered hurt in his eyes, the naked despair.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean growls into his beer and takes another swallow. His stomach churns, sour with guilt and— and with something else he can’t name. A relentless, unfocused yearning, an itch he can’t scratch, a breath he can’t take: it’s like some vital part of him is stretching thin. 

He leaves the beer unfinished and walks to the pizza place, over the street from the bar. But halfway there he stops dead, feet stuttering beneath him. Good job this half-assed town has no traffic, because he’s just standing in the middle of the street staring at the lumpy shape on the sidewalk with his heart pounding so hard he thinks he might break a goddamn rib.

Then the lump – a man; it’s a man – moves and Dean sees a thatch of straw-colored hair and a face that’s not Cas. 

It’s not Cas. Thank God. 

He swallows and keeps moving, past the homeless dude with his cup out for change and a rain-soaked cardboard sign that reads ‘Iraq Vet – drug and alcohol free.’ 

He tries not to imagine ‘ _Apocalypse Vet – drug and alcohol free (so far).’_

Nonetheless, his stomach actually turns as he steps into the pizza place and collects his order. He pays cash, and when he leaves he takes two steps in the opposite direction from the guy on the street before he stops, curses, and turns back around. He fishes in his pocket and counts out a hundred bucks. “Hey,” he says, taking a couple steps closer.

The guy looks up at him. It’s difficult to judge his age, but his surprise is evident. He looks like a man used to invisibility, unaccustomed to being noticed. “Hi,” he says in tentative reply.

Dean’s guts are screwed into knots, but it gives him some relief to crouch down next to the guy and hand over the pizza and the cash. “Listen, there’s a motel a couple miles out of town,” he says. “Come on, I’ll give you a ride.”

The guy’s expression narrows and he moves back. “Man, I don’t do—”

“No. Jesus. I’m not—Fuck,” he says and stands up. “I’m not looking for _that_. I’m just— It’s raining. You shouldn’t be—” He gestures at the blankets, the wet sleeping bag. “You shouldn’t be outside in this.”

The guy still looks suspicious and Dean wonders, sickly, how often he’s been propositioned with the offer of food and a bed for the night. This guy, though, this guy is streetwise – he knows what he’s doing. But Cas? His throat tightens so hard he can’t even swallow. “Get a cab,” he rasps and throws down another twenty – like he can afford to, like he’s some kind of Mr. Big. Then he turns to leave because all he can see now is Cas, with his pretty face and stupid angelic naivety, and he can’t—

“Wait,” the guy says and climbs out of his nest of blankets. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to— Thank you,” he says when the rest of his words dry out. “I mean... Thanks.”

Dean nods, gathering his composure. “Okay. You’re okay, man.” He swallows, clears his throat. “So, ah, you wanna ride or not?”

He nods and picks up his scrappy possessions, stuffing his blankets and sleeping bag into a duffle with depressing efficiency. He barely owns anything, and it’s still more than Cas had when Dean threw him out.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, he could at least have given him a sleeping bag.

In the car, he finds out that the Iraq vet’s name is Jack and that he’s originally from Witchita Falls, Texas. Dean checks in for him at the motel and pays for the room for three nights with one of their credit cards. 

“Go eat your pizza before it gets cold,” he says as he hands over the key. 

Jack nods. “This is— You’re a kind man. There ain’t many people who’d do this for someone like me.”

“Someone like you?” Dean echoes. “You’re just a guy, no different to anyone else, dude.”

A slight smile touches his lips. “Easy to forget,” he says, “when folks stop treating you like people.”

Dean thinks on that as he goes back into town, re-orders the pizza and makes his way home. Is that how it is for Cas? No one seeing him, forgetting he’s even a person. He almost laughs at the irony, a sour laugh. He doubts that his _humanity_ is something Cas is forgetting; he’s lost so much more than that. 

_Including you_ , a voice whispers in the back of his mind. _Including your help, Dean Winchester._

 __“What happened?” Sam asks when Dean eventually drops the pizza on the table.

“Nothing,” he says. “They screwed up the order.” But he refuses a slice when Sam offers; the smell makes him feel ill.

 

**Week Two**

He sends the first text a little after midnight, because he’s drunk enough to feel warm and fuzzy and hates himself for that when Cas is out there cold and alone. 

His fingers hover over the keypad for a good five minutes before he sends the message to the crappy phone he gave Cas before he left: _how’s it going?_

Then he stares at his screen until he falls asleep and when he wakes up it’s still in his hand and there’s still no reply.

“Eat some breakfast,” Sam tells him when Dean slouches into the kitchen later. His phone is in his pocket, volume set to max. “I’ve been grocery shopping.”

He’s still not hungry, but he’s not so dumb that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or that he doesn’t understand the futility of it. Not eating doesn’t help Cas any more than it would if he went and slept on a park bench.

 _Please God_ , he thinks – and it’s a turn of phrase, not a prayer – _don’t let him be sleeping on a park bench_.

“It’s sunny out,” Sam says, wolfing down his own breakfast. “I was thinking we could go out.”

“Out where?”

He looks up over his spoon. “On a hunt? There’s something in Sioux City,” he says, and pushes his laptop over. “Looks like a salt –n’-burn, but, you know, good to get out.”

Dean nods, because if he’s not hunting then what is he doing? Just sitting here with Sam and his angelic freeloader, babysitting Kevin and trying not to think about what Cas is doing...

He pulls out his phone, but there are no messages. 

They drive north and Sam’s right; it’s a straightforward haunting. Just a kid, really – or was, once. Ragged little girl in old fashioned clothes that remind him of the story of the Little Match Girl, who died on the streets of Old London Town – froze to death while everyone looked the other way.

It’s like the whole freakin’ universe is conspiring to trip his guilt. 

“Dinner?” Sam suggests, after.

Dean glares. “What, are you obsessed with food now?”

“Obsessed?” Sam’s frown is bemused, but Dean thinks he can detect the hard light of Ezekiel behind the expression. “No. It’s eight o’clock, and we haven’t eaten since lunch. I’m _hungry_.” Then he cocks his head and the light in his eyes is softer, all Sam, as he folds his arms on the roof of the Impala. “Wait a minute,” he says. “Is this about Cas?”

“What? No,” Dean says, the denial instinctive.

Sam lifts his eyebrows. “Dean...”

Ignoring the question, he gets into the car and turns the key. “We passed a White Castle on the way into town.”

Pulling the door closed after him, Sam says, “I’m sure he’s doing fine. He must have had a plan when he left, right?”

“Right,” Dean says and it’s all he can say without choking. 

“And, okay, so he’s human and that’s— new. But he’s still Cas. He’s still smart, resourceful. All of that.”

Dean thinks, _he already got himself killed once. What are the odds he’s even still breathing?_ His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “Should never have let him leave.”

“It was his choice, man,” Sam says. “Free will, right? It’s what he’s always fought for.”

And ain’t that a fucking joke, coming from those lips? But he bottles his disquiet, tamps it down because he can’t risk Sam getting suspicious. “Right,” is all he says. “His choice.”

Later, once they’re back at the bunker and Dean’s in his room, he pulls out his cell. It’s possible that Cas is just ignoring his text. It’s possible he’s pissed. It’s comforting to think that he’s pissed, that he’s turned that hurt into anger and that he’s using it to stay sharp. But the other option... Well, Cas is being hunted and the other option seems much more likely.

So he doesn’t text again, he just dials. It rings twice, and then goes to voicemail. There’s no personal message, just the network telling him to talk after the tone. Dean doesn’t say a word. 

He wants to hurl the phone against the wall; he wants to curse at the heavens. But if he breaks the phone then Cas can’t call, and there’s no one left in heaven to care. So he sends another text.

_call me_

__And then, _please._

There’s no reply to either.

 

**Week Three**  


Like the Grinch, Dean feels as though his heart is two sizes too small, like it’s been squeezed into a box inside his chest. It’s painful. It’s almost physically painful, like he can’t quite breathe anymore. Sam’s noticed something’s wrong, although he responds with sideways looks and doesn’t mention Cas again. Dean’s glad of that, at least. Lying to Sam is exhausting and he’s already keeping enough secrets.

Everything is exhausting, mostly because he’s not sleeping. Every time he closes his eyes he sees Cas, head lolling to one side and the Reaper with his blade in her hand. Or he dreams of Cas in Jack’s nest of wet blankets on the sidewalk, taking handouts from strangers. And all he can think is _He should be here._

 __So when the call comes, late one evening, he’s not really asleep. The phone is in his hand and he feels it buzz before it rings. He doesn’t recognize the number, though, and fumbles the phone to his ear. So help him, if it’s a cold call... “What?”

There’s a pause, then a woman’s voice says, “Hello, is this Dean?”

Suddenly, he’s wide awake. “Who’s asking?”

“My name’s Jenny Wells,” she says. “I’m a support worker at the St Vincent de Paul shelter. I’m trying to get in touch with Dean.”

Rolling over, he gropes for the lamp next to his bed and blinks against the glare when he switches it on. “I’m Dean.” 

“I’m sorry to call so late,” she says, her voice tinny and distant and tense, “but do you know someone called Thomas?”

“Thomas?” He rubs a hand over his face. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” A sigh drifts down the line. “Okay. I’m sorry to bother—”

“Wait,” he says. “Where d’you get this number?”

“From a client’s phone,” she says, and he thinks _client_? “He was admitted to hospital this evening and we’re trying to trace his next of kin—”

Dean’s on his feet, heart thumping. “Thomas?” he says. “His name’s _Thomas_?”

“That’s right. We found a phone in his jacket and yours was the only number in it, so I was hoping... Well, but it’s probably stolen. That’s not uncommon, I’m afraid.”

“His name’s Thomas?” he repeats. “Are you sure?” Because he doesn’t know anyone called Thomas, but who else but Cas would own a phone with only his number in it? Unless this Thomas guy robbed him…

“That’s what he told me this morning,” the woman – Jenny – says. “But he was a little out of it when he arrived at the shelter, so—”

“What does he look like?” 

“Um,” she says. “Caucasian. Tallish, fairly slender. Late thirties, maybe? Dark hair.”

His mouth has gone dry and he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Blue eyes?”

“Yes. Quietly spoken, very polite.”

“Okay,” he says, taking a minute to process it. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Do you—? Is he someone you know?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah, I think so. Is he—?” He clears his throat, but can’t shake the tremor in his voice. “What happened? Is he ... okay?”

“He’s not well, I’m afraid.” Her voice settles into kind concern. “They admitted him this evening when we brought him in from the hostel. He’s...” There’s an awkward pause. “I’m sorry, but are you family, sir?”

Family? He’s not sure he deserves the title, but lies anyway; he knows how this works. “Yeah,” he says with a genuine sigh. “He’s my brother. He’s— His name is, um, Clarence.”

“Good,” the woman says. “Then I guess I can tell you… I understand from the doctors that Clarence has pneumonia. It’s not uncommon at this time of year, given his situation.”

“His situation?” A fallen angel, cast adrift in the big bad world by the one guy he thought was his friend. _That_ situation?

“Among rough sleepers,” Jenny clarifies.

He’s not surprised – what else did he expect? – but it takes him a couple of painful heartbeats to process the words ‘rough sleepers’. 

“Sir?” Her tinny voice niggles in his ear. “Were you aware that your brother’s been sleeping rough?” And there’s enough of an edge to her words that they penetrate Dean’s spinning thoughts; he can hear her unspoken _you asshole_. He figures he deserves it – and more, if she knew the truth. 

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I knew things were tough for him right now, I guess.”

“I see.” She’s positively chilly.

“He’s gonna be okay, right?”

Another pause. “Not if he’s sleeping rough, no,” she says. “The hospital can keep him for tonight, but he has no insurance and after that… We don’t have any long-term beds at the hostel, Dean. I’ve been calling around the homeless shelters, but at this time of year…” 

She lets that hang, and Dean stares at his bare feet and the cold floor beneath them, and he knows what she’s going to ask and he knows what he’s got to say. And it’s killing him, this choice between Sam and Cas, it’s like a knife in his chest and he means that without one ounce of hyperbole. 

“Okay,” Dean says, rough into the phone. “Right.”

There’s silence, then Jenny says, “So does that mean—?”

He doesn’t know what it means, he just says, “I’ll come. Which hospital?”

“Oh,” she says, and the surprised relief in her voice is palpable. “It’s the Miami Valley Hospital.” 

Dean blinks. “Florida?” It’ll take freakin’ days to get there.

“Dayton,” she clarifies. “Ohio.”

And that, he figures, is a straight shot east on I-75. “I’ll be there in the morning,” he tells her, and hangs up.

Then he sits in silence and tries to think it through, but his thoughts get hitched up on the words _rough sleeper_ , _pneumonia_ , and _homeless_ _shelter_ and he remembers Jack in his wet blankets and feels something raw clot in the back of his throat.

 _I did this_ , he thinks. And so he had no choice – he had to protect Sam – but it doesn’t negate the fact that _I did this_. 

Clearing his throat, he scrubs a hand across his face and gets dressed. It’s eleven o’clock now and he figures it’s a twelve hour drive, maybe less on clear roads. He can’t tell Sam or he’d demand to come too, and Ezekiel won’t allow that, so he gets up in silence and leaves a misleading note on the kitchen table.

_Heading south, back in a couple days._

__Then he slips into the Impala, turns the key and starts driving. He has no idea what he’ll do when he gets there – he can’t take Cas home with him, obviously – but he figures he’s got twelve hours to work that out. Besides, all that matters right now is getting there, and although it seems insane he can feel something unwinding inside him as he drives. It takes a couple more miles of dark road before he figures out that it’s relief.

He’s actually relieved to be driving through the night because tomorrow he’ll see Cas, and for the first time since he left the bunker Dean will know that he’s… Well, if not okay, at least alive. He’ll know that Cas is alive and safe and someplace warm – even if it is a hospital.

That’s pretty fucked up in any number of ways, but when he stops for gas he feels hungry for the first time in forever and snags a bag of chips and a coffee for the road.

 

Dean arrives at the hospital a little before ten because he’s made good time, although he’s jittery with lack of sleep and too much caffeine. He hasn’t got Sam’s patience with the reception staff, so when he asks about ‘Thomas’ and is met with blank stares he’s on the verge of losing his temper. “Come on,” he snaps, “I’ve been driving all night. He’s—”

“Dean?” He turns at the sound of his name to see a kind looking woman with the type of practical hair and clothes that makes it obvious she has higher priorities than fashion. “I’m Jenny,” she says. “We spoke last night?”

“Yes,” he agrees, in relief, and casts a hard look at the receptionist. “ _Thank_ you.” And then, to Jenny, “How is he?”

Her expression turns hesitant and she takes his elbow. “Let’s go sit down.” 

“What?” He shakes her hand off. “What’s wrong? Is he—?”

“He’s improving,” she assures him. “He’s much more coherent than he was yesterday...”

“But?” he prompts, because he can hear the word dangling at the end of her sentence.

Jenny looks awkward, shoves a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s talk,” she says, and leads him to a quiet corner of the waiting room.

He perches on the edge of a seat opposite her, hunched over his knees, and rubs at his gritty eyes. He’s too tired for this; he just wants to see Cas. He wants to confirm that this _is_ Cas and to make sure he’s okay. Until this exact moment, he hadn’t realized how much he _needs_ that and the visceral tug of yearning in the pit of his gut is disturbing. He rubs a hand over his face, fixes Jenny with a hunter’s glare, and says, “ _What_?”

To her credit, Jenny doesn’t flinch. He suspects she has to deal with a lot of douchebags in her line of work. Instead, she sets the file she’s holding on her lap and says, “So, I told Thomas – uh, Clarence – that you were coming, and he— I’m sorry, but he asked not to see you.”

That hits hard, that punches right into the gut. “He said that?”

“He was quite insistent, I’m afraid.” 

“Screw that,” he says and gets to his feet. “Where is he?”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” 

“The hell I can’t.”

“He was quite adamant,” she says, although he can tell she’s uncomfortable by the way her fingers are fiddling with the edge of the file in her lap. “He was quite distressed that I’d called you. I think he feels ashamed of … of his circumstances.”

“ _He_ feels ashamed?” Dean drops back onto the seat, his whole body suddenly too heavy to support. “Jesus.”

“It’s common,” Jenny says. “It’s so easy to fall on hard times, yet people always blame themselves.”

Dean can’t even begin to process it; they’re carrying worlds of shame between them, he and Cas, and not even a year in purgatory was enough to wash away their guilt, but Cas is too ashamed to see him _now_? It makes no damn sense. “You gotta let me in there,” he tells Jenny, and he’s not above fixing her with his best puppy-dog eyes. “Please.”

There’s no tell-tale flush in her cheek, but after a moment she gives a scant nod. “Wait here. I’ll go and talk with him again.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, and makes a show of stretching out his legs and getting comfortable. But the moment Jenny’s through the door he’s after her – as if he’s actually going to wait for Cas’s _permission_. He slips past the receptionist and follows Jenny down the corridor, up the stairs, and along another corridor until she disappears into a room. 

He approaches carefully, keeping close to the nearside wall and smiling nonchalantly at the passing doctors and nurses. He barely warrants a second glance; he’s practiced at hiding in plain sight. As he approaches the doorway the first thing he hears is coughing, underwritten by Jenny’s calm tone – too quiet to make out what she’s saying – and just as he peers around the door he hears Cas’s voice, recognizable despite the coughs that punctuate every couple of words.

But it’s the sight of him that stops Dean in the doorway. He knows Cas is human now, has seen the most brutal evidence of it, but somehow seeing him hooked up to drips and propped up in a hospital bed brings the reality home in a whole new way. Cas’s shock of black hair seems all the starker against the white bed sheets, his drawn features sallow.

For an instant, Dean wants to turn and run. He can’t face being responsible for this. But it’s too late because he can already hear what Cas is saying and his words root him to the spot.

“... tell him ...” he’s insisting between coughs “… that I’m fine. I don’t need him to...”

“Cas,” he says, because screw that.

Cas looks up and there’s a flash of something horribly human in his face: hurt, anger, frustration, shame. All those things are there before he turns his head away, jaw clenched until he coughs again and pulls an oxygen mask up to hide his face.

Jenny, for all her previous compassion, glares at Dean. “I told you to wait.”

“Yeah well,” he says. “I didn’t.” He takes a step inside. 

“You have to leave, sir,” she says. “Don’t make me call security.”

He meets her glare for glare, and then looks past her to the bed. “Cas?” he appeals. “Come on, man.”

That stubborn face is still turned away and Cas waits one, two, three long beats before lowering the mask and saying, “It’s okay.” 

“Are you sure?” Jenny turns back to him, frowning with concern. “I’ll get him removed if you want.”

A shake of his head and a fleeting look, like he can’t bear to meet Dean’s eyes. “It’s okay, thank you, Jenny.” And that’s followed by another cough and his hand pressed to his chest as if it hurts. Dean guesses it must.

“Ten minutes,” Jenny warns as she leaves. “He needs to rest.”

Dean just nods and makes no promises.

When they’re alone, he takes a couple steps closer to the bed. “Dude...” Now he’s here, he realizes he still hasn’t figured out what to say.

The look Cas gives him is as cool and appraising as ever it was, a flicker of angel blades in its depths. “Why are you here?”

“You should have called,” he says and drops into the plastic chair next to the bed. 

Again that steady look, haunting coming from Cas’s gaunt and unshaven face. “Why?” 

“If you needed help...”

“I _did_ need help,” he snaps. “You told me to leave.” 

He holds Dean’s gaze until Dean is forced to look away. “Look— that doesn’t mean we’re not... We’re still _friends_ , Cas.”

“ _Friends_?” Cas sounds bewildered. 

“You know we are.”

“I don’t know anything,” he says and looks away. “I don’t _understand_ _anything_.”

Dean takes a breath, lets it out. With Cas’s head turned he can see how matted his hair is, the grime beneath his fingernails. His gut tightens. “Where’ve you been living, anyway?”

No answer, but there’s an angry flicker in his jaw. If Cas still had his mojo, Dean thinks he’d be smitten by now. 

_Smote_ , he corrects with a frown. He means _smote_ not smitten. Obviously.

“Look, Cas,” he blurts, “I’m sorry you can’t stay at the bunker. I’m sorry I—the way I handled it was crappy.”

His jaw is still tense as he turns back around, lips pursed in that way he has of looking angry, offended, and infinitely exasperated. “Yes,” is all he says, “it was.”

“There are reasons,” Dean ventures.

“Of course; I’m a liability now.”

“What? Come on... No way. You’re— I mean… you know a lot of useful shit.”

“Dean,” Cas says, speaking low so Dean has to lean closer to hear. “I may be human, but I’m not a child and I’m not stupid. I know why you don’t want me—” He breaks off to cough, but doesn’t carry on. Dean’s not sure whether that was the end of the sentence or not.

Into the silence, he says, “It’s not about what I want.” And maybe it’s the quiet of the room, or the reality of Cas lying sick on the bed, but the words feel truer than anything else he’s said for a long time. “When is anything ever about what I _want_?”

Cas’s expression is as enigmatic as always. “You’re protecting Sam.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, because that much truth he can spare.

“You’ll always protect Sam,” Cas says. “No matter the cost.”

“He’s my brother.”

Cas is silent but he rolls his head across the pillow to look out the window again, as if he’s made some kind of decision. “You should leave.”

“I don’t want to.”

A slight smile, more cynical than Dean’s comfortable seeing on his face. “Didn’t we just establish that it’s not about what you want?”

“So what? It’s what _you_ want? You want me to go?”

Brow furrows in confusion. “What’s the point of you staying?”

And Dean could say ‘Because I want to make sure you’re okay’, or ‘Because I feel shitty that I can’t take you home’, or even ‘Because I miss you’, but he realizes those are all about him, they’re all about making himself feel better. He’s still got nothing to offer Cas. “I don’t know,” he says, mumbling the words toward the floor. “I guess there _is_ no point.”

He can feel Cas watching him for a beat longer before his attention shifts back to the window. “No,” he agrees. 

“No point unless…” Dean looks up. “Unless you just want me to hang out for a while?”

There’s a flicker in Cas’s jaw before he says, “That would just make it worse—” And his voice breaks on the last word in a horribly human way, goes rough and raw and disintegrates into a cough that leaves Cas breathless. He leans back against the pillows with his eyes shut, fingers clutching at the oxygen mask but not lifting it to his face. Dean tries not to notice the glisten of moisture among the lashes that lay dark against his pallid skin because, _fuck_ , angels don’t cry.

And if nothing else is proof of what Cas has become, then it’s this. Dean’s throat constricts because he knows – he _knows_ – that at least half of this is on him. “Cas...”

He doesn’t answer, but his mouth is a tight line and his eyes are still stubbornly closed. It doesn’t keep the tears from leaking out, though, running down the side of his face and into his hair. 

“Shit,” Dean murmurs. “Come on, man.”

“Please...” And it’s just a whisper. “Just go.”

“No.” And screw it, but no. “I’m not leaving, okay? I’m not leaving you here like this. End of the fucking story.”

“Dean...”

“No.” 

Cas looks desperate, like he can’t hold it together, and when he opens his eyes they’re bloodshot and hurting, and Dean remembers that, on top of everything else, the guy is sick. Like _sick_ sick. He puts a hand to his forehead like he used to do with Sammy and feels the dry burn of fever. But his touch stills Cas, turns him rigid, his eyes fixed on Dean’s as if he has no idea what’s happening. And for some reason Dean doesn’t move his hand, leaves his fingers on Cas’s forehead for a moment, then presses his palm to his unshaven cheek. “You’ll be okay,” he says. “You’ll get better. You’ll feel better.”

Cas just blinks at him. “You should get some sleep, Dean. You look tired.”

“Yeah, well,” he smiles. “I drove all night.”

And that’s how Jenny finds them – Dean with his hand cupping Cas’s face, and Cas staring into his eyes. She clears her throat from the doorway and Dean snatches his hand back and almost knocks the plastic chair over as he jumps to his feet. “Right,” he says. “Okay.”

“Dean needs to find a motel,” Cas says quietly, apparently unfazed by their embarrassingly emo moment. 

“Ah,” Jenny says, with a smile aimed at Dean. “Good.”

And there’s something knowing in that smile that makes him want to vacate the room immediately. “I’ll be back later, buddy,” he tells Cas as he backs away.

“Of course,” Cas says with one of his barely-there smiles.

It’s not until that evening, after having slept a solid five hours, found dinner, and waited for visiting hours, that Dean realizes Cas was playing him.


	2. Chapter 2

Castiel leaves the hospital that afternoon. He climbs out of bed, dresses in his own (stolen) clothes, and makes his way on unsteady legs toward the exit. He’s not expecting to be noticed. One thing he’s come to understand is that people choose not to see men like him – they avert their eyes, cross the street, study their phone. Anything but acknowledge the disheveled man on the street.

He thinks that, if Sam and Dean ever want to go unnoticed, they should adopt the persona of the homeless. It’s quite the effective disguise.

Outside it’s cold and damp and he starts coughing right away. It’s almost enough to drive him back inside where it’s warm. But no, he can’t. Dean will be back soon, with all his awkward affection and torn loyalties, and maybe he’ll stay for a day or two but in the end he’ll leave, and Castiel will have to start the process of adapting to his loneliness all over again.

He still doesn’t know why he’s not welcome at the bunker, why Dean thinks his presence poses such a threat to Sam. A greater threat, even, than the presence of Kevin Tran, Prophet of God. Reluctantly, he concludes that whatever risk Dean thinks Castiel poses outweighs his value. Kevin, at least, is useful to them; Castiel is nothing but a target. And he has no illusions that Dean will relent, that he’ll let him back into their home; Dean will always – _always_ – put Sam before anyone and anything else. After all, he chose Sam over closing the gates of Hell, over wiping demons from the face of the Earth – it’s a small thing, in comparison, to force Castiel to navigate the world alone. And he sees no reason to put either himself or Dean through the pain of that choice again. He can protect them both from that, if nothing else.

Not that it makes this second leaving any easier than the first. In fact, it’s worse. He can still feel the warmth of Dean’s hand on his face – the only touch of genuine affection he’s felt in weeks – and its absence already makes him ache.

So much is dulled in this human form: perception, understanding, acuity. But feeling… As if to add to the punishment, _feeling_ is heightened. Simple human emotions like need, love, loneliness and sorrow have the power to freeze his mind and render him all but useless. He hates them, and that’s a human feeling too. If he could only recover some element of his grace he could burn all this pain away, but if he could do that he wouldn’t be in this wretched position at all. He’d be useful; he could help protect Sam against whatever danger he’s facing. And then he wouldn’t be an outcast.

Self-pity: he adds that to the catalogue of human emotions he’d like to incinerate with his lost grace.

He has eighteen dollars and fifty-six cents to his name. It’s not enough for a bus trip, so he’ll need to walk and he heads for the nearest church; one thing he’s learned about this fragile human body is that it needs shelter more than rest. If he doesn’t get out of the cold and the damp he’ll probably wind up back in the hospital. Or dead.

Not that death frightens him, in fact he’d almost welcome it, but he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t stick. Whoever keeps bringing him back will only do it again, and then it will be worse. It’s always worse. Besides, he can’t leave Dean to fight alone. He can’t leave Dean to grieve alone. He can’t— He just can’t leave Dean.

Sometimes he wonders if that’s why he keeps coming back, if somehow his life, his fate, is tied to Dean Winchester and that while Dean lives so must Castiel. The Ancient Greeks, he thinks, would have conjured just such a torment for one of their hubristic heroes. And if anyone has flown too high it’s him, scorching his wings in the sun and plummeting helpless back to Earth.

And so he plods on, through the quiet evening streets. His chest is tight and his body is weak, his head light. He’s sick. He knows it, understands sickness now in a way he never did before. How many times had he healed sickness or injury without fully understanding what he did? And how many times had he neglected to do so, for the same reason? Fragile, flawed, damaged humanity – he’s learning a lot about his Father’s finest creation. He just wishes he’d understood it sooner, when he still had the power to help.

The church itself is locked, and will be until morning, but there’s a porch that’s sheltered from the elements and Cas sinks down gratefully in the lee of the wind. It takes him a moment to catch his breath, his legs wobbling like jellyfish. The simile makes him smile; he remembers seeing them in their thousands in the ocean millennia ago, glowing and drifting in the vast deep. Then he coughs and reality wraps itself back around him, cold and hard, and he unzips his duffel bag and pulls out the sleeping bag and the hospital blanket he stole.

Once an angel of the Lord and now a common thief: how the mighty have fallen. But he supposes petty theft is hardly the greatest of his sins and can’t summon the energy to feel too guilty.

Wrapped up, he props himself against the wall; he’s coughing too much to lie down. He’ll stay there until daylight, and then move on. He’s got enough money for breakfast, and if he can go back to the shelter where Jenny—

But no, Dean will look there. He’ll have to go further. But for now, he’ll just close his eyes and rest and hope he doesn’t dream.

 

“The _hell_?” Dean explodes. “What do you mean he’s _gone_?”

“I’m sorry,” Jenny repeats, straightening her shoulders and standing her ground. “Clarence slipped out this afternoon somehow.”

Dean tries to swallow his anger, hears Sam’s warning voice in the back of his mind, but all he can think about is how sick Cas had looked, how human, how ... God, something’s tightening his chest like a witch’s hex. “Don’t you have guards?”

Jenny blinks at him. “It’s a hospital, Dean, not a prison. People are allowed to leave.”

“But he’s sick!”

And at that her breath comes out in a rush. “Yes, I know. Your brother’s in a vulnerable state – that’s why I called you in the first place – and he’s not—”

“Security cameras.” Dean glances up into the corners, mind switching onto an easier track. He’s a hunter. He hunts things. He can hunt Cas again, if he must.

“I’ve asked the hospital to check them,” Jenny says, “but—”

“Asked?” He shakes his head. “Screw asking, I need to see that footage now.”

“Dean,” she says, laying a hand on his arm. “You can’t just—”

He shakes her off and reaches into his pocket, pulls out his FBI badge. “Let’s just say this is a little more than personal concern, shall we?”

Her eyes widen. “You’re kidding me.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding? I need to see that security footage right now.”

‘Right now’ turns into a half hour, but at last Dean’s sitting in front of a monitor watching grainy footage of Cas swaying down a hospital corridor in jeans, a hoody, and a jacket. He’s got one hand trailing along the wall as he walks, like he’s holding himself upright, for fuck’s sake, and at one point he looks up into the camera. He looks right into it, and Dean knows Cas knew that he’d be watching, so it’s like he’s looking right at him. Cas pauses, just standing there looking, and then he turns away and heads toward the automatic doors in the lobby. He’s picked up again by the camera outside, walking out – stopping, doubled over as he coughs, then straightening up. He pulls something – money? – out of his pocket, examines it, then starts walking. Dean watches until Cas disappears into the dark and he’s left staring at a blank screen as the video comes to an end.

Jenny says, “It’s like he knew you’d be watching.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice too rough for a Fed. He swallows. “I, uh… Thanks. I gotta go.”

He takes two steps before Jenny says, “He’s not really a criminal is he? Or your brother.”

“No.” He stops, but doesn’t turn, too worried about Cas to talk his way out of this. “He’s a friend,” he admits at last. “An old friend. We— we’ve been through a lot together. I owe him my life.”

“Then I hope you find him again,” she says, coming to stand next to him. Out the corner of his eye, he can see that she’s holding something out to him – it’s Cas’s crappy phone.

“Thanks,” he says, taking it from her and turning it over in his hands. It’s stupid, but just holding it makes him feel… He squeezes his eyes shut, tightens his fingers around the cheap plastic. “If he comes back?”

“I have your number,” Jenny says, her fingers brushing across his sleeve. “I hope— Look, this may not be my place, but I can see how important he is to you. I hope you make your peace.”

Dean just blinks at that, swallows, and says, “Right. Yeah, okay.”

And then he’s moving, Cas’s phone still in his hand, his mind whirring. Think like a hunter, like a hunter who knows his prey. Where would Cas go, on foot? Sick?

It’s pretty damn obvious really, because Cas has always worn his heart on his sleeve.

Where would Cas go? He’d go home, or the closest thing to it. He’d go to his Father’s house.

 

Because he’s sick and cold, Cas doesn’t sleep. So he’s awake to watch the sky change from black to inky blue. Yesterday’s low cloud has passed and the air is sharp and biting, the sky clear and a few distant stars fading with the dawn. He can still see Venus though, bright in the sky, and tries not to remember hurtling past her boiling atmosphere at another dawn more profound than this simple paling of the sky.

He climbs to his feet without grace, which is an ironic turn of phrase; everything he does now is graceless. But this morning he’s especially slow and fumbling, which he puts down to the sickness that has, undoubtedly, gotten worse overnight. Dean, he thinks, would call him a stupid sonofabitch.

Right now, Cas probably wouldn’t argue.

But he’s also a stubborn sonofabitch, so he packs up his sleeping bag and blanket and steps out from the porch. He’s got enough money for breakfast and a couple of hours somewhere warm while he figures out what to do next.

There’s a _Denny’s_ within sight of the church, and he’s too tired and, frankly, feeble to go any further. He tries to smarten himself up before he enters, so he’s not thrown out, but there’s not much he can do; he knows he looks sick and cold and tired. He’ll just have to rely on his manners to get him past the staff. He’s found that a smile and a quiet ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ work well. Diffidence too, can disarm. He supposes it makes him look less threatening. It astonishes him that, weak and homeless as he is, he’s now considered more dangerous than when he was an almighty weapon of God dressed in smarter clothes.

Irony: humans seem to bathe in it.

This morning he’s lucky, however, and the waitress is kind and there’s sympathy in her face as she shows him to a booth in the corner. “Cold morning,” she says with a smile, and pours him coffee without asking.

“Yes it is,” he says and wills his hands not to shake as they reach for the mug.

“Take your time ordering,” she adds, and then glances toward the opposite corner of the restaurant. “The restrooms are that way, if you need them.”

He sits for a few minutes letting the steam from the coffee rise up and over his face as he drinks, absorbing the heat. When his mug is empty, he gathers his strength and makes his way to the restrooms. His face in the mirror is ghastly, pallid and with dark circles under his eyes. His hair is too long; he needs a shave and a shower. But all he can do is run the hot water and wash his hands and face, drying them off with paper towels, and pushing his fingers through his hair to try and make it less disheveled. He’s not sure he succeeds.

His chest hurts and he wonders, again, if he’s being stupid running like this. But then he remembers Dean’s distress, torn between helping Cas and protecting Sam, and knows he’s doing the right thing. He’s doing the right thing for all of them.

He makes his way back to the table and his coffee, which the waitress has refilled, and contemplates the menu. He’s not hungry, which he puts down to this sickness but he knows he needs to eat something, so he orders the ‘Every Day Breakfast Slam’ which is only four dollars. It’ll last long enough that he can sit in the warm for a couple hours before the wait staff start to eye him from across the room and he feels the need to leave.

Now that he’s warmer, he starts to get sleepy. He knows from experience that folding your arms on a table top and resting your head there is not a good idea in a restaurant. People think you’re drunk and ask you to leave. So instead he slumps sideways and props his head on the wall and lets his eyes close. He doesn’t sleep, the coughing sees to that, but he dozes and enjoys the sensation of warmth seeping through his limbs and into his fingers and toes.

When the waitress brings his food, he smiles his thanks and takes a few bites, but his stomach protests at the greasy meal and he has to rest his head back to ride a surge of nausea. He’s irritated with himself; he doesn’t want to waste four dollars on a meal he can’t eat. But he thinks that if he rests a little more, he might be able to stomach the food. Eggs, someone at a shelter had told him, are very nutritious, which shouldn’t be surprising since they’re simply unfertilized chicken embryos. He’s a little embarrassed at how off-putting he finds the idea of eating such things, but needs must. He takes a forkful and forces himself to swallow.

Every so often the door opens as new patrons arrive and a bloom of cold air drifts through the restaurant. Castiel feels it on his skin, the sharp scent of a cold morning, and shivers deeper into his clothes. He can’t seem to stop shivering and he’s afraid he won’t have the strength to move on; he’s underestimated his sickness, he’s realizing, and the fragility of his body. This infection in his lungs could kill him, but he finds he’s increasingly ambivalent about that prospect as he settles his head into the corner of the booth and dozes again.

The next time the door opens, it’s with a whoosh of cold air, as if the door’s been flung wide, and the room fills with a presence that makes Castiel’s eyes flash open.

They immediately lock with the very bright, very angry glare of Dean Winchester.

 _Fuck_ , Castiel thinks.

 

 _Fuck_ , Dean thinks.

He’s found him in a freakin’ _Denny’s_ , of all places, propped up in the corner looking like death warmed over. Screw that, he looks much worse than Death. At least that guy can eat a decent meal. Cas looks like he can barely stay upright, his intent blue gaze fixed on him from a fever-pale face.

“Sir?” a waitress says, looking between Dean and Cas. “Can I get you a table?”

“No. I’m with him.”

He pushes past her, stalks toward Cas the way he’d stalk a wendigo, arms loose at his side, weight forward on the balls of his feet. Ready. He’s waiting for Cas to run, even though he looks like he can barely sit up straight. But Cas doesn’t run, he just watches as Dean almost throws himself into the seat on the other side of the booth.

For a moment, they just stare at each other over the table. Cas looks terrible, worse than yesterday, and he’s wearing that damned mulish expression that’s half confusion and half challenge. “The _fuck_ , Cas?” Dean says at last, because he’s pretty much at a loss for words.

“Dean,” he says, brow furrowing as he casts a warning look at the table nearest them. “There are children listening.”

Dean glances over, catches a scowl from the mom and offers a slight apologetic smile, before he hisses at Cas, “Are you out of your mind? Because I have no idea what the hell you’re thinking.”

Cas knots his jaw and turns his head away, just like he always does when he doesn’t want to answer a question. Or can’t. Dean has to smother the urge to grab his chin and make him face him. “ _Cas_ ,” he hisses, clenching his fingers under the table instead.

“Why are you here?” Cas says then, turning to his breakfast. He picks up his knife and fork and starts toying with the eggs. It’s a nice little act, might even have looked convincing if his hands weren’t shaking so hard.

Swallowing another curse, Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out the bottle of antibiotics he’d taken from the hospital. He shakes out two and pushes them across the table. “Swallow them,” he says.

Cas lets the silverware clatter onto the plate and peers at the pills with obvious suspicion. “What are they?”

“Medicine, you stupid fuck. Take them.”

Cas doesn’t move, just stares at the pills.

“For the pneumonia,” Dean clarifies, because it’s possible that a celestial being might never have seen antibiotics before. “They’ll keep you alive.”

“Yes,” Cas says, and there’s a horrible indifference in his voice that turns Dean cold.

“Don’t you even think—” He sucks in a breath, glaring across the table. “Take the pills, or I’ll shove them down your throat myself.”

Cas’s mouth presses flat, into a thin line of irritation, and he reaches out a shaky hand and fumbles with the pills.

Dean’s patience reaches its limit and he snatches them up himself, grabs Cas’s hand and tips them into it. “Jesus,” he says as he feels the heat in Cas’s skin, “you’re burning up.”

“Actually,” Cas says, “I’m quite cold.”

Shivering, in fact; Dean can feel it where he’s holding Cas’s hand, and when he looks he can see his shoulders shaking too. “Right,” he says, “that’s it. That’s fucking it.”

“Dean—”

“Shut up. Take the damn pills. Now.”

Without looking away, Cas slips the pills into his mouth and Dean hands him the glass of water on the table. “Swallow.”

Cas's hand is unsteady as he lifts the glass to his lips, but he swallows the pills down with a grimace and then just stares at Dean with his customary cool defiance. “Happy now?”

“No,” Dean says and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ten dollar bill and slaps it on the table. “Get your stuff,” he says. “We’re leaving.”

“I’m not going with you, Dean.”

“Yes, you are.”

Cas shakes his head. “Why? I can’t stay in the bunker and I don’t—”

“We’re not going to the bunker,” Dean says, standing up. “Now come on.”

“Dean—”

“Cas!” He leans forward, over the table, right into his face. “I swear to God,” he hisses, “if you don’t come with me I will sling you over my shoulder and carry you out of here like the big baby you are.”

Cas looks horrified. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

For a moment, they just stare at each other, a clash of wills, and then Cas lets out his breath in a sigh that disintegrates into a cough and Dean knows he’s won. “Look at you,” he says, “you couldn’t fight a kitten right now.”

“I would never fight a kitten,” Cas points out as he slides out of the booth, dragging a duffle bag behind him. “Why would I ever want to do _that_?”

Dean doesn’t answer and refuses to be amused. Instead he just grabs the duffle from Cas, ignoring his objection, and steers him toward the door with one hand on his shoulder. Even through his jacket, Dean can feel Cas shivering and it ratchets up his concern another notch.

Outside, the Impala is waiting and he shoves Cas into the passenger seat, throwing his duffel into the trunk.

“Are you taking me back to the hospital?” Cas asks once Dean slides behind the wheel and starts the engine.

“Nope,” Dean says, and spares him a glance as he pulls out of the parking lot and into traffic. “Somewhere I can keep a better eye on you.”

“Then where—?”

“Motel,” Dean says and fixes his attention on the road. “Just until you’re on your feet again.” He thinks of Jack and the pizza, of Cas sleeping rough in the rain, and of how all he can do for either of them is nothing more than a motel. “It’s fucked up, okay?” he says. “But this is the best I can do.”

Cas is silent for a moment, but eventually he says, “Thank you, Dean, but it’s more than you need to do.”

“It’s the exact opposite of that,” he growls, and puts the music on loud enough to drown any further conversation.

By the time he pulls up outside the Holiday Inn Express (the guilt is driving him upscale), Cas is slumped against the passenger door. Sleeping, Dean hopes with a sudden sharp fear, and reaches out to shake him. “Hey, Cas, wake up.”

He stirs, bleary-eyed, and blinks. For a moment he’s confused and sleepy and Dean feels a flare of something warm in the pit of his stomach. It’s like affection, something fond, and he tells himself it’s the same thing he feels for Sam. “I’ll go get a room. You wait here.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it,” he says, his door half open. “If you try to run…”

Cas huffs out a bitter laugh and rests his head against the back of the seat. “Dean,” he says, “I think walking might prove challenging.”

“Right.” Dean says. “Shit. Okay, just hang in there, buddy.”

He checks-in as fast as possible, practically throwing the credit card at the guy behind the desk, and grabs the room key. Then he helps Cas out of the car. He’s still shivering and by the time he’s out and standing, leaning against the car, he’s breathing hard and that’s making him cough and he says “Dizzy” right before his legs sort of sag and Dean has to grab him to keep him from hitting the ground.

“Cas,” he hisses, hauling him upright. “Come on, man. You gotta walk. “

Dean loops his arm around his waist, and Cas drapes a clumsy arm around his shoulders. “Just ...” he wheezes “… give me … a minute.”

“Sure,” Dean says, but he’s wondering how the hell to get Cas into the elevator without the guy at reception noticing. Hotel’s tend not to like sick, dead, or drugged people in their rooms, and in his current state Cas looks like any or all of those things. He’s beginning to regret not going for his usual caliber of motel, when he notices the reception guy slip out of the main doors and disappear around the corner with a cigarette.

“Cas,” he hisses in his ear, “time to go. Come on.”

Cas makes a valiant effort and they get inside, through the small but empty lobby, and into the elevator before his eyes roll back and his legs give out entirely. It’s only luck, and the fact that it’s before noon, that the corridor on the fourth floor is empty and no one witnesses the sight of Dean Winchester carrying a comatose dude into his hotel room.

He deposits Cas on the nearest bed and is relieved to hear him cough as he rolls onto his side, muttering something incoherent. It takes another ten minutes to retrieve their stuff from the car, and by the time he’s dug out the Tylenol from his med kit, Cas’s eyes are fluttering open. He looks slightly less deathly too, for being horizontal. “Hey,” Dean says, coming to sit next to him on the bed. “More pills. For the fever, this time.”

Cas stares at them blankly, so Dean says, “Open your mouth.”

He does, Dean drops them inside and holds a glass of water to his lips and makes him drink. He winces and lies back down, coughs and tries to sit up again. “Can’t...” he fumbles at one of the pillows, until Dean understands what he needs and shoves it behind his back so he’s propped up higher.

With a sigh of relief, he sinks back and lets out a slow breath. “I feel like I’m dying.”

Dean smiles and pats his shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re not.” He hopes.

“How do you stand it?”

“Being sick?”

Cas nods, a spare, exhausted gesture.

“By not whining about it. Now go to sleep.”

He makes to get up, but finds his sleeve caught by Cas’s fingers. “I missed you,” he says, unfocussed and feverish. “I missed you every day, Dean.”

And that hurts, that clutches at something deep inside. It’s not guilt, it’s not shame – at least, not _only_ them – and it’s both dazzling and painful and Dean has to swallow hard before he can reply. “I wish things were different,” he manages, which is lame but all he’s got. He hesitates for a moment and then covers Cas’s hand with his own. “I wish …”

But he doesn’t finish the thought, unsure where it’s going, and Cas’s eyes have closed anyway, his fingers sagging heavy and limp against Dean’s arm.

He sits there for a while, watching Cas’s shallow breaths and occasional coughs, keeping his hand over Cas’s where it’s still resting on his arm. He wonders what the hell he’s doing here and what the hell he’s going to do next.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel wakes cold and soaked to his skin and for a moment he thinks he must be on the street again, out in the rain. He sits up in darkness, confused and chilled, and realizes he’s in a bed. Lights flit through the window and across the ceiling – passing cars – and for a moment he thinks _hospital?_ before a familiar voice says,

“Cas?”

Dean. 

A light comes on and Castiel squints against the sudden glare, turning his head away from the bedside lamp. Memory drifts back on aching wings; he’s in a motel room. Dean found him, brought him here. Saved him, in a way. 

“Hey, man, how you feeling?”

“Damp,” Castiel says, plucking at his clothes in confusion. They’re clammy, sticking to his skin. “What happened …?”

Dean’s at his side, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with one hand. “Fever probably broke,” he says. “Now you’ve got the sweats.”

It sounds disgusting and that probably shows on his face, because Dean laughs a little. “Yeah, it’s gross.” He sits down on the bed and lifts a hand to brush damp hair off Castiel’s forehead so he can rest his palm there. “Definitely much cooler than before.”

“Are you a doctor now?” 

Dean twitches his eyebrows in amusement. “Are you complaining?”

“No.” And that’s honest enough. “Dean, you—”

“Ah.” Dean cuts him off with a little warding gesture. “Let’s just— You gotta get out of those clothes, man. You’re soaked through.”

Castiel realizes that he’s no longer wearing his hoodie or his shoes, but his t-shirt is drenched with sweat and sticking to his skin and his pants feel clammy and very unpleasant. He feels, as Dean would say, gross. “I need a shower,” he decides.

“Dude, you could barely stand when we got here. I don’t want you passing out in the shower and hitting your head.”

“I won’t pass out,” he says, and makes himself sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Even that makes his head flutter like it’s been cut loose from the rest of him, and he sways sideways until Dean braces a hand on his shoulder.

“Easy, tiger.”

“I’m fine,” Castiel insists. “Anyway, I need to pee. Again.”

Dean just grunts and helps him to his feet. 

But Castiel feels as limp as wet newspaper, like every cell in his frail human body has been drained of power. Empty. “This … this is _awful_.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees and helps him reach the bathroom door. “Um, you can, uh, manage from here?”

Castiel shoots him a dark look and Dean retreats. “Good. Great. Just – you might wanna, you know, sit down while you—”

“ _Dean_.”

“Okay. I’m just sayin’.”

It takes even longer than normal to conclude the tedious biological functions of the human body, but the sight of his matted hair, scruffy face, and grimy clothes in the bathroom mirror are enough to spur him on. Moving slowly, like he’s balancing on broken glass, he leans down and gets the shower working. It’s a complex system involving turning faucets, pulling levers – for no reason he can understand, every shower seems to operate differently – but at last water is flowing and it’s hot. Mercifully hot. 

Retreating to the toilet, he closes the lid, sits and starts pulling off his dirty, sweaty clothes. He has no idea what he’ll wear when he’s clean, but he’s not putting those things back on. He’s already feeling fluttery in the head again when he steps into the shower, but that’s not going to stop him and he sighs in deep relief as the water sluices over his head, through his hair, across his shoulders. He just stands there, absorbing the steam and the heat and letting his mind drift far, far away.

It lasts a few moments before the steam in his lungs triggers a cough and he reaches for the fiddly little bottle of shampoo while he can still stand up; the edges of his vision are already fading, but he wants to be _clean_. He hates Dean seeing him like this, abject and filthy. 

He rubs shampoo into his hair with one hand and braces himself against the slick tile walls with the other, fighting the dizziness until he starts feeling hot and cold all at once and strange spots dance in front of his eyes. 

There’s a buzzing in his ears, which is new, and between that and the rush of the shower he barely hears the distant banging sound.

 _Sit down_ , he thinks, and slithers to his knees in the tub, lettings the water wash the shampoo down over his face and body. He watches it swirl down the drain and wonders exactly how much lower he’s going to sink in this particular incarnation. Perhaps next time he’ll come back as a rat. 

With his head down, he can breathe a little easier and his vision clears, so he makes the most of it by turning off the water. That’s when he realizes that the banging was coming from the other side of the bathroom door. 

“Cas?” It’s Dean, of course. “Cas, you okay in there?”

He considers how to answer, because he’s not quite sure how to get out of the shower without standing up but he’s not going to admit—

A blast of cool air cuts through the steam. “Cas?” Dean’s voice is louder. “Dude, you okay?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, with a sigh, “No.”

There’s a pause. “Okay …” Dean sounds awkward. “Do you, uh … Crap. I told you not to take a damn shower.”

He supposes Dean is uncomfortable because Castiel is naked behind the shower curtain. Humans, he learned from one rather awkward encounter in a shelter, are more prudish than angels about nudity. He pushes a hand out from behind the curtain, “Towel?”

“Crap,” Dean mutters again, and then Castiel feels a towel shoved into his hand. “Are you on the floor in there?”

“No. I’m in the bath tub.”

“I meant—” Dean clears his throat and Castiel can picture the way he’s probably shifting from foot to foot with embarrassment. “Do you need me to…?”

He doesn’t. And even if he did, he’d refuse. Not so long ago he was an angel of the Lord, a warrior of God, a weapon of divine power; he won’t let Dean Winchester help him out of the shower like an infant. Gritting his teeth he wills the weakness and faintness away, pushes himself to his feet, wraps the towel around his waist (to spare Dean’s blushes) and makes his way out of the shower. If his legs wobble, he refuses to admit it as he glares at Dean who’s hovering in the doorway watching him with a wild look that Castiel can’t decipher.

“You’re …” Dean clears his throat and frowns. “Your hair’s wet.”

Castiel has no idea how to reply to that comment. Maybe it’s a joke? But he feels like crap and needs to lie down before he falls, so he shoulders his way past Dean and sinks down onto his bed, dragging his legs up. 

He senses Dean watching him, can feel it like heat. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed since he lost his grace: he can still feel the burn of Dean Winchester’s gaze. Then Dean huffs out an exasperated sigh. A moment later Castiel feels the mattress dip next to him. “You’re dripping all over the bed, man,” Dean says and starts blotting the water from Castiel’s back and shoulders with a dry towel, ruffling it over his wet hair. 

Castiel is torn between wanting to kiss his feet in gratitude and wanting to punch him for making him feel so pathetic. Dean’s anger and resentment he can bear, but not his pity. Never that. “Dean—” He makes a grab for the towel, but Dean bats his hand away. 

“Don’t,” he says gruff-voiced. “Just let me.” The towel runs along the backs of his legs, over his chest and stomach, and then disappears as Dean stands up. 

When Castiel opens his eyes again, Dean is on the other side of the room, rummaging in his own bag with his back turned. He pulls out some clothes, dumping them on the floor, and then stops. His back is still turned and he rubs a hand over his face like he’s steeling himself to say something, then both hands run through his hair and tighten there for a moment before he shakes himself. It’s almost like he’s preparing for a fight or a hunt. Castiel feels a cold sliver of dread; is that how Dean sees him now? Another problem to be solved? A _burden_.

“Dean,” he says, “you don’t have to do this. I’m not your—”

“Yes you are,” Dean says, without turning around.

His heart sinks a little lower, anger rising in response. He pushes himself back to sitting. He’s cold now, shivery. Not like before, not those bone-deep chills, but cold from the air drifting through the vents. The hairs on his arms and legs are standing up straight. The towel around his waist is damp, so are the sheets and pillows beneath him. His dirty hoodie is on the far side of the bed and Castiel reaches for it. He doesn’t relish the idea of putting it back on now he’s clean, but he’s cold and it’s all he’s got. He doesn’t want to be dependent on anyone else, especially Dean; he’s learned the futility of that. “I’m really not your problem,” he tells him after a pause and doesn’t care if he sounds waspish. “I can take care of myself.”

Dean turns with an irritable frown. “What?”

“I said I’m not your problem, Dean. You don’t have to fix this.”

“You’re _not_ my problem,” Dean agrees, scooping up the clothes from the floor as he stands. “What are you talking about?”

Castiel fixes his eyes on him. “Your responsibility, then.”

A little shake of his head and Dean’s gaze dips down across his chest then sharply back up to Castiel’s face. “You’re not my problem or my responsibility— Well,” he hesitates, “I guess you are kinda my responsibility, but—”

“Dean…”

“Friend,” he says sharply. “I told you before, Cas, you’re my _friend_.” 

Castiel stares at him for a long moment because he’s honestly not sure, not after everything. “Am I?”

“What else?” Dean says as he crosses the room, dropping the clothes he’s holding onto the bed next to Castiel. “You should get dressed.” 

He glances down at the clothes – Dean’s clothes. “I can’t take these.”

“Why not?”

“They’re yours.”

“Consider it a gift,” Dean says. “You understand what gifts are, right?”

“Of course.”

“Fine. Happy birthday.”

“I don’t have a—”

“Cas.” 

He looks up again, catches Dean’s eye briefly before he looks away, refusing to be caught. So Castiel just says, “Thank you.” 

The clothes are clean, soft, and comforting and smell of Dean and of soap. Dean turns his back while Castiel changes, but once he’s dressed Dean seems to relax. He makes Cas sit on the drier bed – Dean’s bed – rumpled from where he’d been sleeping earlier. “You trashed the other one, Rockstar,” he says with a smile as he hands over another handful of pills and a glass of water. “Antibiotics, Tylenol – all the good drugs. Drink up.”

He does as he’s told, then lies down on Dean’s bed and presses his face into the pillow. He’s vaguely aware of Dean pulling the covers over him, of the bed dipping next to him, and the soft burble of the television switching on. And then he sleeps.

 

Dean is gone when he wakes. Castiel isn't surprised, but he’s still ambushed by a swoop of disappointment in his chest. He’d been expecting this, of course. It’s why he’d left the hospital in the first place, so he could leave on his own terms, but he can’t deny he’s grateful for the warm bed. He’s frightened by the thought of what might have happened to him if Dean hadn’t found him; he’s frightened by how much help he needs just to stay alive. 

He braces himself and tries to sit up. His body is still weak, but his head feels clearer than before and he hopes that means the medicine is working. Dean has left the bottle behind, sitting on the table next to the bed, and he picks it up and squints at the instructions. ‘Take with food’ it says. That, he thinks, will prove challenging. Food is difficult to come by on a regular basis and he’s learned that humans need to eat very regularly indeed, every few hours in fact. He wonders how they’ve managed to achieve so much – both good and ill – in the short history of their species when they have to stop every couple of hours to find more food, or to pee, or to sleep or any of those other things that distract from their purpose. 

But maybe, he thinks in a moment of revelation, this was the plan all along. Maybe this is evidence, not of humanity’s imperfection, but of God’s genius. Angels have no such distractions, no such weaknesses, and look at the terrible damage their undeflected purpose has wrought on the world. But humans are, by God’s design, hobbled. Not only that, but in enduring their weaknesses they have developed a capacity for compassion and empathy few angels share, and by overcoming their limitations they have learned to question, to struggle, to fight on even when their fate seems inevitable. 

Perhaps it’s their weakness that has saved humanity from the angels’ fate? 

Castiel’s not sure he’s every fully understood that until this moment, weak and human himself. But God, he realizes, must have understood this all along and that kindles a renewed faith in the plans of his absent Father.

He’s distracted from his wandering thoughts by the need to pee – yet again – so he sits up and is pleased that the world stays more or less steady as he swings his legs over the bed and creeps into the bathroom.

He’s just washed his hands – he knows all about bacteria – and is bracing himself, catching his breath, against the bathroom doorway when a thump against the hotel room door makes him jump. 

_Angels_. He looks around for his blade, but it’s on the far side of the room, next to the TV. Too far away because the door is already opening and he turns in alarm to see Dean stroll in with a large pizza box in his hands. 

“Hey,” he says with an easy smile. “You’re up.”

Cas blinks and pushes himself off the doorjamb, dropping back down on the bed in an effort to mask both his alarm and his swooping relief. “I thought you’d gone,” he says, although even as the words leave his mouth he can see Dean’s bag is still there, half open, on the far side of the room. He’d never have missed that detail before.

Dean flicks him a look that he can’t readily interpret. “I got dinner,” he says, kicking off his shoes and sitting down next to him on the bed. He puts the pizza box between them. “Hungry?”

He is, actually, and reaches for a slice. It tastes good. It’s possibly the best pizza he’s ever eaten. He tells Dean so and Dean laughs. 

“I need to take you to New York, man.” 

Castiel doesn’t tell him he’s visited New York often, mostly before it was a city but many times after too. But he’s never eaten pizza there, which he supposes is the point. “I’d like that,” he decides and offers Dean a smile. “I’d like to go to New York with you.”

It has an interesting effect, that smile; Dean’s expression changes from humor to confusion and a slight flush creeps into his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we should do that someday.”

Some day when Dean and Sam aren’t hunting, when Cas is no longer hunted or a threat to them. Some day in an impossible future, a day they both know will never come. 

Into the silence that’s fallen, Dean says, “So, uh, what you been up to since you left the bunker?”

This, Cas supposes, is ‘small talk’. He’s not sure how to answer, what Dean’s expecting him to say. What does he think he’s been doing? “Hiding, mostly,” he says and glances at Dean, adding “From the angels” just to clarify.

Dean’s mouth goes tight and he nods. “You had any run-ins?”

“No, I’m staying ahead of them.” He lifts his borrowed shirt to show Dean the warding tattoo just below his ribs. “They can’t find me.”

Dean’s eyes rest there for a moment before skittering away. “Cool,” he says and pulls down the neck of his shirt to reveal his own sigil. “You should get one of these too, dude.”

“I know. When I have enough money I will, but the angel warding was more pressing.” More pressing, even, than food.

“Jesus.” Dean rubs a hand across his face. “I’ll give you the money, Cas.”

“Dean—”

“I should have— That should have been the first thing we did when we found you.”

Cas feels a flicker of irritation, because surely providing a bed for the night should have been the _first_ priority. And Dean hadn’t even offered that much. “You had other concerns,” he says, and can’t help adding, “How _is_ Sam?”

Dean’s expression closes down, even more so than usual. “He’s good,” he says with a nod, like he’s trying to convince himself. “Getting better.”

“Ezekiel helped him?”

“Uh, yeah.” He lifts the pizza box. “You want another slice?” It’s an obvious distraction, a way to divert the conversation away from Sam, as if just by talking about him Cas might somehow endanger him. He wishes he could tell Dean that he’d never hurt Sam, but they both know he’s done him harm in the past and Cas is sure Dean will never forget – even if he has forgiven, and Cas isn’t even certain of that anymore. Dean has both gone to Hell and unleashed its demons on the world to save his brother. How could he ever forgive Castiel for endangering Sam’s life? That distrust, festering even years later, seems the most likely cause for Dean’s current behavior and it fills Cas with acute despair. Can he never redeem himself in Dean’s eyes?

“Cas?” Dean wiggles the pizza box again. “C’mon, you hardly ate one slice.”

“I’m tired,” he says to excuse his sinking mood.

Dean doesn’t look like he believes it, but clears himself and the pizza box out the way so that Cas can stretch out on the bed. “You should get some more sleep,” he says. “It’s gonna take a couple weeks to get back on your feet.”

 _Weeks?_ Cas fixes him with a look. “I had no idea.”

“It’s freakin’ pneumonia, man.”

Perhaps Dean recognizes his rising panic, because he says, “Hey, don’t worry, I’ve squared it with the dude at reception. You’re all checked in for two weeks.”

Cas just stares at him in disbelief. “I can’t stay here for two weeks.”

“Sure you can.” Dean smiles, he looks pleased – like he’s doing Cas a favor. 

“No.” He coughs as he struggles to sit back up, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “You don’t understand, Dean. I can’t stop running. They’ll find me.”

Dean blinks, something knotting in his jaw. “You’re warded.”

“It’s not enough,” he says. “There’s nowhere in the world that’s safe for me now.”

Nowhere except the bunker. He’s fairly certain they’re both thinking that same thought.

Dean looks away, down at the rumpled cover of the bed. “Well,” he says, “you can’t just— You’re _sick_ , Cas.”

“You don’t need to tell me that.”

“Then—”

“Then what?” he snaps. “What do you want me to do, Dean? Stay here, despite the danger, just so you feel better about telling me to leave the bunker?”

“No,” Dean scowls. “No, I just—” He rubs his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“Neither do I,” Cas bites back. “I’m just trying to stay alive.”

Dean presses a hand to his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut. “I know…” he begins, but Cas can’t listen to him; he can’t bear the knotted pain of this anymore, the hurt he feels deep down. 

Not so long ago, he could have just disappeared – taken flight, escaped to the top of the world, to the cosmos and the deep cold of space. But there’s no escaping these bones he’s tied to, this frail human body. “I have to go,” he says, and all but plunges off the bed. 

“What?” 

“I can’t stay here anymore.” He looks around for his stuff – his clothes, his coat, his sleeping bag. Where are they? 

“Sit down,” Dean sighs.

“No. Where are my clothes?” 

“Not here.”

Cas stares at him. “Why would you steal my clothes?”

“I didn’t steal them,” Dean says. “They’re at the laundromat, you dipshit.”

Helpless, he stares around as if his stuff might just appear out of nowhere. But he’s barefoot, dizzy, chest wheezing with the effort of talking and when he coughs he has to double over and wrap his arms around his stomach to hold himself together. 

“Yeah,” Dean drawls, “you’re in great shape to be leaving.”

Defeated, Cas staggers back to the other bed. It’s cold and still damp and he perches on the edge, bracing himself with one arm on the mattress and the other still wrapped around his waist. “Then _you_ go,” he says when he catches his breath. “Go home, go back to Sam. Just…go. Please, Dean.”

Dean’s silent for a long beat before he says “No” and gets up from the other bed with a sigh. “You and me, Cas,” he says, and sits down heavily next to him, elbows on knees as he stares at the floor between his feet. “You and me…”

Cas just closes his eyes, too exhausted to parse Dean’s meaning. 

A moment later, Dean nudges his shoulder against Castiel’s arm. The contact is equal parts pleasure and pain. “Hey,” he says, “we’ve been through some crap, huh? You and me.”

“Yes.” It’s not a controversial assertion.

“I mean, we’ve been through hell together.”

“Both literally and figuratively, yes.”

“And Purgatory,” Dean adds. Cas can sense him move, turns his head and finds Dean watching him. “I feel like—” Then he shakes his head and looks away. “I fought to get you out of there, man. And you— you stayed. If Naomi hadn’t pulled you out, you’d still be there, and I’d—” His voice cracks, but through the cracks he says, “I searched for you, Cas. I fought for you, I bled for you, and none of it was enough.”

Cas stares, uncomprehending. “Enough for what?”

“You still left.”

“I didn’t leave …”

“You left _me_.” 

Cas is startled by this revelation, that this is how Dean sees his need to do penance, but after a moment’s reflection he’s not surprised. Dean is used to the world revolving around him; too often, recently, its fate has rested on his shoulders. But he’s wrong about Purgatory; Castiel’s decision to stay had had nothing to do with Dean Winchester. “I have,” Cas says, “more blood on my hands than you can ever imagine. I needed to atone.”

“And _I_ needed _you_ ,” Dean persists, his focus resolutely on the floor again. “I needed you, Cas. But that wasn’t enough.”

Cas eyes the sweat-stained pillow, swaying a little. He needs to lie down, but he also knows he needs to speak. He might never have another chance. “Better off without me,” he suggests. “Everything’s better off without me: Heaven, Earth, you. Sam, of course.”

“Bullshit.”

“Then why did you send me away?”

He hears Dean’s startled hiss of breath, like he’s been stung. “Cas…”

“I needed you too,” he presses. “I needed your help, your guidance, your friendship – and you turned me away. When I needed you most, Dean, you turned me away.”

Dean’s silent and Cas feels remorse slip through the gap between them; hurt is making him cruel. “I’m sorry,” he begins just as Dean says, 

“ _Fuck_ ,” his jaw clamping, throat working.

“If you could just explain—” 

“Well I _can’t_ ,” Dean says, and it’s more lament than apology. “Look, I wish you could come home with me, Cas. I want you there, man. But it’s not safe.”

“It’s the safest place in the world,” Cas can’t help pointing out. “It’s safe enough to shelter Kevin Tran.”

“But not— Not for Sam, if you’re there.”

Cas lets a beat fall, summoning the resolve to carry on. “I know how much I broke, Dean, on Earth, in Heaven, and … and between us. But I hope you know that, even when I was at my worst, I never stopped trying to protect you. You and Sam.” He swallows and it tastes bitter. “Even when I ended up hurting you both.”

Dean looks at him then, his face a tight mask of distress and his eyes bright and liquid. “I know that, man. I do.”

“Then why can’t you trust me?”

Dean’s silent, his fingers knotting in his lap. “I will always be there for you,” he says instead of answering. “I will always have your back, Cas. If you call, I’ll come. I want you to believe that.”

“I want to believe it,” he says as the world starts to fade again and he sinks down onto the damp pillow. His feet are still on the floor, his body twisted sideways. “But it’s so _hard_ doing this alone, Dean.”

He feels a hesitant touch, Dean’s hand brushing his shoulder, then a firmer grip. “I know,” he says, rough-voiced. “It sucks. This whole thing…” He swallows, voice rasping as his fingers tighten on Castiel’s arm. “I’m so fucking sorry, Cas.”

“Naomi said I was made wrong,” he murmurs as his eyes drift closed and he tries not to see falling angels behind his eyelids. “I think she was right. Everything I love, I destroy.”

There’s a low grumble from Dean, then a tug on his arm. “Hey, not there,” he says, hoisting Cas to his feet and helping him toward the other, drier bed.

“Dean—”

“Lie down.”

He does, powerless against his own fatigue. “Dean, I—”

“Shut up,” he says, but his voice is gentle, not angry, and Cas feels a warm brush against his forehead, Dean’s fingertips sweeping up into his hair. “Just go to sleep, okay? You’ll be safe here."

And as sleep draws him down with heavy hands, the last thing Castiel hears is Dean's murmured promise, "I'll watch over you tonight."


	4. Chapter 4

For a while Castiel sleeps, his body sinking boneless into the mattress, and when he wakes, it’s dark in their room and his body is stiff and aching, as if he’s not moved a muscle while he slept. With a soft sigh, he rolls onto his back, stifling a cough as he stretches his legs and arms, one hand brushing against something warm and solid – Dean, lying on the other side of the bed.

Some hours have past, he thinks, and there’s a faint light seeping in through the curtains, silver with the approach of dawn. He watches it with a sinking heart; today, he knows, he must leave.

Dean takes a long breath and Castiel can tell he’s awake and brooding. Even without his grace, their bond is deep and profound, sometimes stretched taut and sometimes drawn close, but always there. So far, anyway. Castiel thinks, if it ever breaks, the recoil would probably kill him. Hester may have thought him lost from the moment he laid a hand on Dean in Hell, but Castiel knows different. He knows that was the moment he was saved.

Outside, traffic is picking up and the beams from car headlights stripe across the ceiling in waves. “I got your stuff back from the Laundromat,” Dean says quietly. “You gotta get yourself some more clothes, man.”

Cas just smiles and says, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Least I can do.”

“I appreciate it,” he says. “When you have nothing, small kindnesses are infinitely valuable. I’m learning that.”

There’s a pointed beat, then “You don’t have nothing, Cas. You have me.” 

It hurts, how much he wants that to be true, but…

“In Purgatory, in Lucifer’s crypt,” Dean says, his voice quiet even in the quiet of the room, “I wasn’t lying, Cas.”

As always, he feels a couple steps behind. “What do you mean?” He turns his head to look at Dean, but he’s staring up at the ceiling, his eyes gleaming in the passing lights. 

“When I said— when I said I needed you. I wasn’t lying. I need you with me, Cas. I _want_ you with me. I can’t explain it. I just do.”

Something pulses in Castiel’s chest, hot and liquid – like his blood, only burning. “I feel the same.” _I’ve always felt the same._

 __“You’re the only one who really understands,” Dean presses on. “Sam— I mean, Sam’s Sam. He’s my brother. He’s – he’s everything to me, Cas.”

“I know.”

“But I can’t— There are things he doesn’t get, or I can’t lay on him, or tell him—” He swallows, and Cas watches his throat move. “But you and me, Cas... You were there, in Hell. In Purgatory. Here. You _know_ , Cas. You know the worst of me, and you still… You’re the only one who’s always believed I’m worth saving.”

“I still do.” Cas turns to face him, eager to make him understand. “Everything I’ve done has been for you, Dean. To help you, or save you.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, lifting a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose. “How about you stop doing that? It never ends well.”

“I can’t stop,” Cas says. “No more than you could stop trying to save Sam.”

Dean’s staring at the ceiling again, but he drops his hand and it lands on Castiel’s wrist. It’s heavy and warm and Cas likes it there. He’s tempted to cover Dean’s fingers with his own, but suspects he’d pull away, so he just takes comfort from Dean’s touch while he can. Humans, he’s discovering, are driven by sensation in ways he’d never imagined. “Sam’s my brother,” Dean says eventually. “Of course I’ll never stop trying to save him.”

“And you’re _my_ brother, Dean.”

“No I’m not. It’s not the same.”

After some thought, Castiel says “You’re right, there _is_ a difference. You didn’t choose Sam as your brother, but I did choose you. I chose you over Heaven, over my garrison, over fate – over my Father’s will, perhaps. I _chose_ you, Dean. And I will always protect you, even if the only way to do it is by staying as far from you and Sam as possible.” 

_Even_ , he adds silently, _if I don’t understand how that helps_.

“Jesus,” Dean says, both profane and earnest, his hand tightening until his fingers are digging into the bone of Castiel’s wrist. 

He touches his fingertips to Dean’s knuckles and Dean lets go, but Cas catches his hand before he pulls it away. “We _are_ brothers,” he repeats. “I would die for you, Dean.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dean says on a sharp exhalation of breath and rolls onto his side, fingers still caught in Castiel’s grip as he looks at him. “I get it. I just can’t explain it: _this_. I don’t know what this is, Cas.”

“It’s just you and me,” he says simply; to him, it isn’t complicated. “This is the bond we share. It’s profound.”

“And that’s why we keep coming back to each other? Even when all we do is make things worse.”

“You don’t make things worse for me.”

“Are you kidding? Dude, if it wasn’t for me you’d still be sitting on your cloud playing a harp. Instead you’re in a crappy motel bedroom with freakin’ pneumonia. And you’re _human_.”

“It’s not a crappy motel,” Cas says. “It’s warm, the bed is very comfortable, and the shower is clean. Also, my current predicament was mostly self-inflicted.” He can’t help a wry smile. “I seem to specialize in Greek tragedy – I could give Icarus a few pointers.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

He does, and he gives it some thought. “You mean,” he says, picking his way through, “that if I hadn’t disobeyed the second time—” He falls silent, remembering that Dean doesn’t know his story in the way he knows Dean’s. “That is, you think that if I hadn’t helped you stop the Apocalypse, I’d be an obedient angel in Heaven?”

“I guess,” Dean says, but he’s got a sharp mind and focuses in on Cas with an intensity that’s intimidating; he’s not used to Dean being able to perceive more about him than he can perceive about Dean “What do you mean, if you hadn’t disobeyed the _second_ time? What was the first?”

He allows a slight smile, because he’s human now and he supposes none of it really matters anymore. “It wasn’t meant to be me,” he explains. “The angel who raised you from perdition? It was meant to be Michael, of course. A little like Excalibur, perhaps, Michael intended to pull his sword from the stone – metaphorically speaking.”

Dean’s mouth falls open as he processes the ramifications. “I’d have said yes,” he realizes immediately. “If he’d offered to ride me out of the pit, I’d have said yes in a hot freakin’ minute.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. “Perhaps you would.”

Dean blinks, brow furrowing slightly. “So how come…?”

“I found you first,” Cas says. “I saw your soul, Dean, shining so bright in that dark place, and I knew—” He shakes his head. “I just knew it was meant to be me. I even thought I felt my Father’s hand in that moment.”

Dean snorts. “I bet Michael was pissed.”

“More than a little,” Cas admits. “But he couldn’t kill me, of course, because of this bond we share – Michael knew he would need me to make the connection, to persuade you to agree to become his vessel. Even so, I suspect he had me reprogrammed again before he sent me back to Earth to find you.”

“What?” Dean says. “Reprogrammed – _again_?”

“I discovered recently that they’d been doing it for millennia,” he says, the realization still painful and dizzying. “Our memories – our will – they controlled it all, Dean: the Archangels, Naomi and others. The things they had us do, the murder, the _wrath_.” His breath hitches at the thought of all the blank spaces in his mind, the void where guilt and remorse should be. “The blood on our hands, Dean,” he sighs. “So much blood spilled by angels in the name of our absent Father, and most of it washed from our memory to maintain the illusion that we were still serving God.”

“Jesus,” Dean says, again.

“Yes,” Cas agrees solemnly. “He would not have been pleased, had he known.”

Dean huffs a laugh, the way he sometimes does when Cas says something unintentionally amusing. “So you’ve always been easy for free will, huh?”

Unsure of Dean’s exact meaning, he says, “I realize now that I must have always been … rebellious. But this time it was different, this time I had a cause. I rebelled because I believed in _you_ , Dean, because you gave me purpose, you changed me. And because I…” he hesitates “because I—”

“Cas.” It’s a warning, sharp and bright. _Don’t go there._

Castiel ignores it. “Because I’d have rather died than lose you.” 

Dean shuts his eyes and there’s nothing but silence and the sound of passing traffic between them. 

With a sigh, Castiel rolls onto his back; he suspects he’s crossed one of the invisible human lines he couldn’t even see when he still had his grace. “I still would,” he says, completing the confession anyway. “I’d still rather—”

“Yeah, well,” Dean growls, “not gonna happen.”

“That isn’t your choice.”

“The hell it isn’t. You’re not gonna _die_ for me, Cas. You’re not gonna die, period.”

Castiel frowns. “I’m human,” he reminds him, although he doesn’t see how Dean could have forgotten. “I’m mortal – I _will_ die.”

“Not on my watch.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he sighs. “You can’t stop me _dying_ , Dean.”

“The hell I can’t,” Dean grumbles, as if that’s any kind of answer. 

“I think I’d like a hunter’s funeral,” he muses. “It would be cold under the ground and I—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean growls. “What’s wrong with you?”

Castiel is silent, considering the question; a great deal is wrong with him, but he doubts Dean is asking for a list. “I’m sorry,” he says after a pause. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not upset.” Which is self-evidently untrue. “Besides,” Dean adds, in a calmer, lighter voice, “this isn’t gonna last. You’re not going to be human forever, are you?” He looks at him then, an intense and penetrating look, like he’s trying to see some kind of hidden truth – as if Castiel is keeping secrets again.

“I don’t know,” he admits, because that’s as honest as he can get. “I have no idea whether I’ll be able to restore my grace.”

“Anna found hers.”

“There may be nothing left to find after Metatron’s spell. Besides, Anna already—” His voice just cuts out then, as if his throat decided it didn’t want to talk because he can remember sliding the blade into Anna’s body, watching her die with her wings burned black into the ground. He remembers so many others of his kind, dead in heaven by his hand. “I don’t,” he begins, but it’s difficult to get the words past the tightness in his throat, “I don’t even know if I deserve to regain it, Dean. Maybe this is fair punishment for my hubris.” He gives a sad smile. “Fitting, at least.” He blinks, feels treacherous human tears on his face and, embarrassed, swipes them away.

But it’s too late; Dean’s already noticed. “Damn it, Cas,” he says, in that gruff, gentle voice he occasionally deploys. “Is that what you think this is? Punishment?”

“What else?”

“Um, how about temporary? It’s not like we haven’t been through this kind of crap before, dude.”

“This is different.”

“The hell it is,” Dean objects. “Don’t just lay there and take it, Cas. Fight back. That’s what Winchesters do, right? Stick it to the man. Fight the power. All that crap.”

“I’m not a Winchester.”

Dean looks at him again. “Sure you are. You’re family, Cas. You know that.”

“Family…” He shakes his head, irritated. “You shouldn’t say things you don’t mean, Dean.”

“I do mean it.”

“Only you and Sam are family.”

“That’s not true.”

But Castiel knows it is; Dean might talk about family, but his priority is and always will be Sam. Cas’s ejection from the bunker is simply a metaphor for the fact that he’s on his own in the world.

“You should sleep,” he tells Dean, his path clearing before him. “You’ve got a long drive tomorrow.”

“I’m not leaving tomorrow.”

Cas smiles a little. “You should sleep anyway. I’ll keep watch for a while.”

“You’re sick.”

“Just for a while, Dean. I’ll wake you if I get tired.”

He waits until Dean’s breathing is slow and even and the brightening dawn is filtering through the curtains into the room. He gets up in silence, collects the clean clothes dumped on the other bed and dresses in the bathroom. He’s still sick, he knows, but it’s not as bad as before; the rest has helped and he has the bottle of pills in his pocket. He’ll be okay. He ties his boots, shoves the clean, dry sleeping bag into his duffel and slips his cell phone into his pocket. 

When he returns to the room, Dean is still sleeping. He’s sprawled on his back, one arm flung out towards the empty half of the bed where Castiel had slept. What Cas means to do is walk to the door, open it quietly, and slip out. But he can’t forget Dean’s warmth, or how much he wants to help despite the secret reasons that exile Cas from the bunker. What he feels for Dean is difficult to pin down – love, he supposes, but it’s a small word to encompass so much fierce emotion. Admiration, loyalty, affection, need: it’s all those things plus an undefined longing when they’re apart that he can already feel tugging at the pit of his stomach, their bond stretching thin. All of that he feels and doesn’t know how to name it. But it gives him pause, stops him between the bathroom and the door, and pulls him over toward the bed.

 _Dean_ , he thinks, lets his lips form the word in silence before he leans down and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead. It turns something tight in his chest, a hot, slick kind of hurt, and he turns away before he can change his mind about leaving.

This is for the best. Grabbing his duffel, he slings it over his shoulder and slips out of the room and into the world again. Alone.

 

Dean lets him go, lets the hotel room door snick closed, lets the twist in his chest tighten until it forces out a groan, and “ _Fuck_.” He says it out loud, letting his fingers brush the place on his forehead where Cas had kissed him.

_Kissed him?_

__He feels like fucking Judas, like Cas was offering forgiveness and condemnation in the same freakin’ gesture. “Fuck,” he grows again and slams his hand hard on the mattress. “Fuck!”

Unable to lie still, he pushes to his feet and stalks to the window. He twitches the curtains open and it’s his crappy luck that their room overlooks the parking lot and the road, that he can see Cas weaving his way through the parked cars with his bag over one shoulder.

Dean lifts a hand and presses it to the window, but Cas doesn’t stop and he doesn’t look back.

It’s for the best, Dean knows. Cas can’t stop running, and Dean can’t help him. He can’t offer him the sanctuary he deserves, the sanctuary Dean aches to provide in ways that unnerve him. 

He thinks of Sam, of Ezekiel, of what he’s sacrificing for both of them, and he wonders what else he’s going to leave bloody on the altar of his own pathological need to keep his brother safe: Benny, every single person possessed or killed by a demon since he talked Sam out of closing the gates of Hell, and now Cas – human, sick, and hunted by some of the most powerful bastards on the planet. 

Dean’s too chicken-shit to even think about how long Cas can survive out there alone. 

Eventually Cas disappears around the corner of a building and Dean turns away from the window. He doesn’t shave – can’t even look at himself in the bathroom mirror – and almost loses it when he stuffs his crap back into his bag and realizes that Cas didn’t even take the clothes Dean had given him.

 _Stupid bastard_ , he thinks as he scrunches the t-shirt Cas was wearing in his hand. It’s still a little warm.

There’s a chance, a good one, that Dean will never see or hear from Cas again – that he’ll turn up as a John Doe in some hospital, just another nameless hobo found in an alley with the stab- wound that killed him written off as drug crime. And Dean will never know; he’ll never know how he died or where he’s buried. It’s not a small chance, either, given what’s hunting him, and the thought opens up something hollow inside him. It’s almost enough to send him racing after Cas and his hand twitches toward the keys to the Impala before he stops himself. He’s just driven that road and there’s no destination worth reaching at the end. The choice is still the same: Cas or Sam. And Dean can only choose Sam; he can only ever choose Sam.

It’s just that, this time, his usual unwavering certainty has been shaken. He feels sick in the pit of his stomach in a way he never has before, because Cas deserves so much _more_ than this. He deserves so much more from him, and it’s killing him to send Cas away thinking that he’s lost Dean’s trust or, worse, that he’s not worth Dean’s help.

Of their own volition, his fingertips touch the place where Cas had kissed him. He can still feel its warmth, the ghost of Cas’s breath against his skin, and it makes him feel... It makes him _feel_ , tight in his chest. He tells himself it was probably just goodbye, or maybe forgiveness; it’s safer that way, to think of it like that. Easier. 

But even if Cas _has_ forgiven him, Dean sure as hell can’t forgive himself. He’s lying to the two people he cares about most in the world and he’s under no illusion that it can end well. This whole fucked-up situation is on him and him alone. 

Which means it’s on him to fix it. It’s on him to find a way to save Sam _and_ bring Cas home. Maybe then, telling Cas he’s family won’t feel so hollow. Maybe then, Dean won’t feel like some part of him is missing, moving further away from him with every passing moment as if his attenuating soul is being rubbed threadbare.

 _Profound bond, huh?_

He looks at his fingers where they’re still holding onto the t-shirt and realizes that Cas was right. It’s familiar, this ache, one he’s gotten used to over the years he and Cas have been drifting in and out of each other’s lives, a yearning that’s been part of him for so long he can’t remember when it began. But now he thinks about it, he suspects it was the moment Castiel first laid a hand on him in Hell. 

And yet, painful as it is, he finds he likes the idea that they’re still connected, despite everything. There’s a strange kind of comfort in that. 

Stuffing the shirt back into his bag, he fishes his cell out of his pocket, ignores the dozen messages from Sam, and pulls up Cas’s number. He types _stay safe_ and hits send before he can change his mind. 

When his phone pings a moment later, he’s surprised at how hard his heart kicks against his ribs. 

_You too, Dean_. 

And a moment later, _Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine._

He smiles – only Cas would use schoolboy grammar in a text – but there’s something fierce burning in the center of his chest and it’s making his eyes smart so that he has to blink a couple times before he can reply. He thinks for a moment, trying to put everything he’s feeling into something short and un-sappy. He goes with: 

_if you call, i’ll come_

__There’s a longer pause before the answer comes through, but Dean doesn’t move from where he’s kneeling on the floor next to his bag until Cas’s message pops up.

_I know._

It loosens something some fraction of his knotted tension; at least, if Cas is in trouble, there’s a chance he’ll call him before it’s too late. It’s little enough, but he’ll take what he can get and it’s enough to push him out the hotel room, into the Impala, and back on the highway.

And it’s enough to keep him going until he can fix this mess – until Sam is well, Ezekiel is gone, and Cas is back where he belongs. At Dean’s side. 

Comrades, brothers-in-arms, friends, family. Something else? His mind skitters away from labeling the nature of their bond; he just knows that it’s there, that it’s important, and that he needs it. 

He needs it like he needs oxygen. 

Like he needs Sammy to be safe. 

And how the hell he’s going to reconcile that he has no idea, but for now all he can do is head to the bunker and hope he can find a way to work it out. Because one thing’s for sure, nothing will be right until Cas is back at his side, solid and constant and _home_

***

There’s something different about Dean when he gets back. Sam’s not sure what it is, but he’s calmer and he even brings food.

“So where’ve you been?” Sam asks, throwing a look across the table to Kevin as Dean pulls cartons of Chinese out of the take-out bag. They’ve been concocting theories about what Dean’s been up to, but Kevin’s answering smile is weak, only half there, and his attention dips back to the angel tablet that he’s taken to carrying around like a comfort blanket. The guy needs a break, Sam thinks.

“Just driving,” Dean says, with a look that brooks no argument. “Needed to stretch my wings, or something. Goin’ a little stir crazy in here.”

Sam knows how that goes, but he can’t shake the feeling that Dean’s not being straight with him. Again.

“So, uh,” Dean carries on. “Everything good here? Crowley behaving himself? You still getting better?”

“Everything’s good,” Sam says and starts eating. “So … you hear anything from Cas?”

Dean looks up, sharp. “No. Did you?”

“No.”

Dean jerks his attention back to his food with a frown.

“I was just wondering—” 

“If he needs us, he’ll call,” Dean says, and then pauses for a moment and nods to himself. “Yeah, he’ll call.”

Sam watches him for a moment, the lines of his shoulders and the tension between his eyes. He’s never been entirely sure what’s going on between Dean and Castiel, but he’s not blind and there’s something there – something intense. He’s not even sure that Dean recognizes it, if he’s able to feel anything beyond his atavistic need to protect his little brother, even when his little brother is perfectly capable of looking after himself. 

“What?” Dean says, glaring out from beneath his eyebrows. Sam’s been watching him too closely and maybe he’s afraid Sam’s seeing all those things Dean likes to keep hidden.

He gives an easy smile. “Nothing, I was just…” He waves his chopsticks toward Kevin, whose nose is in the angel tablet again, his food abandoned. “I was thinking Kevin could use a break. You know, after everything? Get away from Crowley for a while, at least.”

Dean glances over and grunts. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Gotta look after family, right?”

“Right,” Dean says, but this time he doesn’t look up. “Gotta look after family.”

Sam says nothing more, but he stores the conversation amid all those other little hints and hopes he’s been hording over the years. Because maybe one day Dean will be ready to let go; he’ll be ready to let Sam go and, by doing so, set them both free. 

Maybe one day Dean will be ready to care about someone else, and let them care about him in return, and if that ever happens who’s to say that someone won’t be Cas? 

Stranger things have happened, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Knockin' on Heaven's Door' - Bob Dylan
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr as [enochian-things](http://www.enochian-things.tumblr.com/) so come and say hi! :)


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